“Proof that theFortuneexists where you claim. Proof that the treasure is real.” Gyla’s smile is a blade wrapped in silk. “And collateral, to ensure you don’t lead my ships into a trap.”
“Collateral.”
“Miss Larsa comes aboard my flagship.” The words strike like physical blows. “She stays with me while your divers take us to the location. If everything is as you’ve described, she goes free, and we proceed with the salvage. If not...” She shrugs
Zoric’s arm slides around my waist, pulling me behind him. “No.”
“That wasn’t a request, Captain Druger.” Gyla’s voice hardens. “My fleet controls your harbor. My men outnumber yours forty to one. You have no food, no weapons worth the name, and no hope of rescue.” She steps closer, lowering her voice to intimacy. “Give me the girl, or I burn your keep to the waterline and take her anyway.”
The quiet that follows is absolute. Even the seabirds have gone still, as if sensing the violence coiled in the space between us.
Gyla’s gaze finds mine over Zoric’s shoulder. “Debts are sacred, Miss Larsa. You knew that when you ran. Now you know what happens when I catch up.”
She turns and walks back toward her longboat. Her guards follow, their hands resting on weapons they clearly hope to use. The message is clear: cooperate, or watch everything burn.
“Twenty-four hours,” Gyla calls over her shoulder. “Deliver Miss Larsa to my flagship by dawn, or I begin the assault. And, Captain?” She stops, her back to us. “Don’t make me kill her in front of you. I’d rather not waste the asset.”
The Great Hallfeels smaller than it should.
Maybe it’s the people—all five of our remaining fighters, plus Zoric and myself, gathered around a table built for war councils of fifty. Maybe it’s the suffocating reality of what we’re facing, pressing down until the cavernous space feels like a cell.
Or maybe it’s just the fear.
“We can hold the walls.” Brek’s voice carries the optimism of someone too young to know better. The young orc paces as he speaks, his cracked rib apparently forgotten in the surge of adrenaline. “The harbor tower’s still intact. The chain boomsare solid. We’ve got height advantage, defensive positions, choke points at every entrance. If we concentrate our forces at the main approaches?—”
“We’ve got five people,” Thorne’s interruption is gentle but firm, “against professional mercenaries who’ve been fighting for coin since before you were born.”
“Numbers aren’t everything.” Brek’s tusks flash in defiance. “We held against Oreth’s dead. Dozens of them, pouring through every breach. We held because we had to, because there was no other choice. This is the same?—”
“It’s not the same.” Margit’s weathered voice cuts through his protests. “The dead don’t think. Don’t adapt. Don’t wait you out and starve you into surrender.” She shifts on her crate, her injured leg making her wince. “Gyla’s mercenaries will probe our defenses, find the weak points, exploit every gap. They’ve done this before. We haven’t.”
“So we learn.”
“We don’t have time to learn.” Henek cuts him off, his grief-sharpened hostility finding a new target. “We’ve got five injured guards and a wanted criminal against two hundred professionals. The math doesn’t work.”
“The captain’s the reason we’re in this mess.” Henek’s glare swings toward Zoric. “If he’d handed her over the first night?—”
“Then Gyla would have her money and we’d still be starving when the supply ships stop coming.” Thorne’s voice cuts through the argument. “This isn’t about one woman, Henek. It’s about whether a merchant queen gets to dictate terms to everyone on this coast.”
“High principles for someone who’s not being asked to die for them.”
“I’m being asked to die for them same as you.” Thorne stands, her bound arm making the motion awkward. “We all are. Question is whether we die fighting or die whimpering.”
TWENTY-SIX
AVIORA
Her words hang in the air. Henek’s jaw works, but he doesn’t respond. Around the table, the others exchange glances—fear and resignation and a grim resolve.
“We can’t win.” Margit’s voice is quiet. Practical. The assessment of someone who’s lived through too many bad odds to believe in miracles. “Not against those numbers. Not in our condition.”
“But we can make it expensive.” She looks at me—really looks, for the first time since I washed up on this shore. “TheFortune’s real. If we can get Gyla’s ships over the wreck...”
“We need to convince her to commit the full fleet.” His voice is steadier now, the tactical mind overriding whatever moral objections he might have. “One ship over theFortunewon’t be enough. We need all of them in position when the hunger wakes.”
“So we give her what she wants.” The words taste like ash in my mouth. “I go to her flagship. Play the hostage. Lead them to theFortunemyself.”
“No.” The word is instant. Absolute.
